


Through the Looking Glass

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Appropriate Portcullis Boners, Christine is no damsel in distress, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Frottage, Literary References & Allusions, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 12:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18992587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: Raised in the comfort of legend and lore, where the visible was just one variety of reality, Christine had always wondered what the world was like on the other side of a mirror's reflection.A different take on the First Lair.Now with embedded pod-phic.





	Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Traillbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traillbits/gifts).



> Very much ALW, stage version. And very much the original OG, what else.
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely QueenCrawfori. I feel honoured and blessed to have made your acquaintance.

**Through the Looking Glass**

 

The tiny but distinct click of a latch, followed by the soft noise of the mirror door sliding away to reveal a hidden pathway, should have been enough to dispel any lingering thoughts of magical doing. Why choose rational explication over her own fairy tale, though? Why confine her imagination and bend it to the harsh demands of daily life when she could let her mind wander? Raised in the comfort of legend and lore, where the visible was just one variety of reality, Christine had always wondered what the world was like on the other side of a mirror's reflection.

And she had her own mythical creature to go with it.

His otherworldly voice flowed into her dressing room, now unfiltered and free from the confines of its hiding place, having shed the soft echo she had come to associate with it. There he stood, framed by the rectangle of the mirror’s gilt bronze. Her teacher, her maestro, her angel of music - revealed himself to be a strange man in dark dress, half of his face obscured by gleaming white porcelain.

The mere idea should have been scandalous to her. She was an honest young woman, after all, and her dressing room was a far too intimate setting to accept male visitors. Unchaperoned and in her dressing gown. But then, nothing about the situation was in any way normal or common, and apart from lacking a frame of reference for proper etiquette around masked visitors, visitors that dwelled in mirrors no less, she had already abandoned reason weeks ago.

Hypnotically his song wrapped itself around her, calling to her, speaking to a part of herself she could not quite name. In her dreams it had been astonishingly clear and defined, but - as is so often the unfortunate case with dreams - waking had always come with the unavoidable loss of the experience, reducing the flame in her core to an undirected and blurry longing, the figure of her dreams to a spectre. Only the voice had stayed faithfully by her side, drawing a connecting line from dream to wakefulness, from night to day. That same voice she knew intimately from her dreams was sustaining her in the form of her unseen voice coach and guide, dare she say friend, during day. It was a voice she trusted and relied on, as if it were her own thoughts or their mirror image. It was a voice she had come to expect, to wait for, to… long for. It was a voice that kept her sane during day and drove her mad in her sleep, singing songs in her head till she could no longer ascertain where she ended and her angel began. This voice reverberated in her soul and all too often delved down into her depths, and quite bodily so. How could a voice so soft and gentle, so utterly divine, stir such inappropriate emotions?

And now he stood before her, what a queer appearance with his hat and cape and mask, holding out a hand for her to take. His dulcet tenor voice calmed and excited her in equal measures, enveloping her in his haunting tune, drawing her closer and closer. To finally see the mysterious being that had so thoroughly commanded her attention! It was an offer, she realised, a glimpse into his world, a new level of trust given. But would she be able to trust herself on the other side of the mirror?

Christine hesitated only for a moment, before she made the conscious decision, took the offered hand and stepped through the frame into the darkness of the secret hallway. Maybe her dressing room and the busy world of light and noise to which it belonged, was just an antechamber to a purer place where dreams would finally be allowed to linger and unfold their passionate potential, a place where she could give herself over to art without restraint, guided by someone who really understood her without judgement?

The significance of this small step through the mirror into the unknown was not lost on her - no matter how safe she felt in his arms as he guided her through a labyrinth of hidden passageways deep into the bowels of the Palais Garnier, it felt like a plunge into Alice’s rabbit hole to her. She saw herself falling and tumbling into uncharted waters full of dangers and possibilities. With steadfast resolve she let her voice join his in a duet, drowning out the noise of the fearful whispers in her head, feeding off his melody. The way down was long and bewildering, yet she felt herself grow more confident with every step at his side. His whole presence exuded elegance and restrained power, with his soft footfalls and catlike movements as if he played the very ground he walked like an instrument. This was the infamous phantom that kept the _Opera_ in suspense and struck fear into the hearts of the ignorant, she knew it, she had long suspected it, and she was shocked that the revelation had not shocked her much.

They crossed the subterranean lake below the building - lit by dozens of candles the rippling water threw back distorted images at her like a shattered mirror. The lair they finally reached was like something out of her favourite gothic novels - amidst arched walls and alcoves brimming with dancing shadows there was a home of sorts, secured by a large portcullis that separated it from the rest of the cellars. Its extensive parlour was out in the open - if one could call it open underneath the vaults - like a reception hall. There was an overabundance of candles that not only dipped the premises into a flickering picture of shadow and light, but warmed them sufficiently. It was quite beautiful in its solemn mood, like a cathedral or place of worship. His voice filled the sacred room until Christine was sure she was completely surrounded by it - it was around her, above her, echoed deep inside her. Her own soprano went higher and higher on this ascent to paradise, without her even putting much thought into it. She felt the strange music flowing through her, the notes being pulled out of her effortlessly. There was something he said to her, something to urge her on, but she did not even hear the words anymore - she lived and breathed his music, becoming its vessel, letting it take her higher until she soared.

Christine was not sure when her last note in this unearthly song had actually died away or if it even had; the weightless feeling persisted and she could still detect the sound vibrating in her bones. She remained rooted to the spot and let it wash over her, until her inner music quieted long enough that she became aware of her angel again: he sang for her. It was strangely comforting, like being caught after a long fall, and she felt herself held and loved both in his song and his arms. She could only stare at him in wonder as his hands drew the images of her dreams into the air around them, sketches full of promises, each note turning into a colour, each gesture, however small, turning into a vibrant picture. It was a strange, synaesthetic dance with her maestro in the centre of it all, as its composer and painter, architect and player at the same time. He was the notes he sang, became the music he unfurled for her.

Whatever legerdemain it was, at a wave of his hand the portcullis began to descend again to close them off against the onslaught of the _other_ world, this mundane world above, keeping it from spilling and intruding into their realm. And she could no longer stand still and remain passive, but followed his steps, a curious excitement taking over; the need to partake in his magic grew with each passing moment and took on the form of a bittersweet ache inside her. With flourish he turned around to face her, his body now splayed against the portcullis as his hands came up and opened wide to grasp at the iron bars of the grille behind him. His breath had quickened, she noticed, now that she was the one to actively inch closer to him. Was there a slight tremble in his voice, a minute tremor in his body? Was he… scared? His body spoke a different language, however, as it displayed itself to her, arms wide as if in invitation. She closed the already negligible gap between them, effectively trapping him against the metal grille. His sudden gasp was a sharp dissonance to the notes he sang, and it thrilled her that she was the cause of it. No, she was not simply going to be the vessel for his music, not his instrument, but she was going to add a composition of her own, a counterpoint to his melody.

There was neither the place nor the time to dwell on propriety - not anymore, and it had not been a pressing concern for quite some time, if she were honest with herself and trusted her dreams. Her mythical creature, once thought so unapproachable that it bordered on an imaginary friend, was here with her, as close as layers of clothing would allow, his chest pressed close against her bosom. Not a strict and aloof teacher or incorporeal guardian angel, but a man of flesh and blood, breathing in harmony with her. She opened her arms and let her hands find his on the iron bars. As if held in invisible shackles he had not moved them from the portcullis, waiting in what appeared like limbo what she would do with him, now that she had him. It gave her an intoxicating surge of power to see him like this, to feel him with every fibre of her body. His hands were of such refined elegance, with long and expressive fingers, the cool skin warming to her touch surprisingly quickly. These hands that had drawn caresses into the air and all around her body, not quite touching, but describing a path of unbridled worship. Not quite touching, but wanting - surely wanting?

She looked up and sought out his eyes, these mesmerising, weirdly mismatched eyes, but while he did not falter in his singing, his gaze was not as strong and confident now, but fled instead. Another advance, and abruptly he tilted back his head against the portcullis and let his eyes close completely. Retreat or submission? Christine pondered for a moment, but his voice that grew breathier gave him away. She focused on his face, the right half of it and his nose hidden behind the mask just like his eyes were now hidden behind their lids. She was curious, yes, of course she was. But she would not pressure him now, leave a few secrets to uncover later, and take what was freely presented instead. From the uneven shape of his lips she could gather that his face was not like any other man’s. But… later, later. The uncovered half of his face was just as fascinating. She had never seen any man wearing make-up apart from theatrical purposes. Her maestro, on the other hand, had clearly whitened his complexion with a thin application of zinc powder, and his eye was subtly lined with kohl. From up close, however, she could see the natural blush of his left cheek shimmering through the cosmetic layer, and even a few freckles right under his eye. The sight filled her with an odd warmth profounder and more confusing than the passionate heat coursing through her veins and pooling between her legs.

Her hands began to wander of their own accord, gliding along his outstretched arms, mapping his lean and sinewy form through his clothes, until they reached the lapels of his coat; they sneaked inside the fine woollen fabric to caress his sides through the waistcoat and the starched layer of his shirt. His song became a cascade of soft and pleading sighs when she pressed closer still and trapped his warm hard length against her belly. Christine was not naive - she might have chosen to believe in fairy tales and mirror dreams, in angels and myths, but a chorus girl could not avoid listening in on stories of erotic discovery and scandalous accounts of trysts and experiments. The puzzle pieces of immodest chat and obscene gossip that used to bloom among the dancers and singers just had to come together at one point. The hard evidence of his excitement and desire was a stark contrast to his angelic voice, heaven and hell in thrilling melodic interaction. 

“Sing for me, my angel of music,” he had all but commanded during their duet when they first set foot in his lair. And she had. The exact words came back to her now; the honorific had been bestowed on her when his mortality had made him shed his wings. The truth was more complicated, she now realised, with the soft moans coming from his lips like a prayer and igniting her in turn. The angel was indeed there, between them, as their creation, a co-authored composition of interwoven dreams. Maybe it had been a joint piece of art from the beginning. The angel had always been inside her.

It took an especially hard gasp from his mouth for her to register that she had started moving her body against his. Her mind was on fire, her body a candle wick that eagerly lapped up every note, to fuel the inferno inside her. His hands were shaking, she noticed, obviously shaking from arousal, but probably also from the effort of holding himself up against the iron bars instead of collapsing at her feet. Oh how she wanted to kiss him, explore what little skin lay bare in front of her, but… there was this mask, his lips an unspoken frontier (later, later…), and did angels kiss? Did she overwhelm her maestro? Did she ask too much of him? Did she dare take more than he was willing to give, when this clothed body was already all splayed out for her disposal?

A very small voice in the back of her mind advised caution, but her own growing need pushed it aside roughly as she made room for one of his thighs between her legs and started to chase fulfilment. Her head tucked into the warm crook between his chin and shoulder, she moaned into his chest, while one of her hands took a firm hold of the obscene shape that distorted the elegant lines of his trousers.

There was something decidedly lewd and raw about their dance now, and she hoped - yes, this small voice was stubborn - it would not ruin whatever it was between them. He had led her to his sanctum, his _seat of sweet music’s throne_. Whatever had driven her to this shameful…-

No! She stopped this train of thought immediately and again devoted herself fully and earnestly to the crescendo of sighs and moans and groans they created together. _He_ had fanned the flames. _He_ had offered himself. _He_ had wanted her to sing his music of the night. On this side of the looking glass, the world was upside down beneath a man-made sky and angels were made of fire and lust, of blazing eyes and dark desires, and had to hide in the shadows. This music was pure and holy because it stood way above petty human distinctions of good and evil. This music was… this music was frantic and boundless and… faster - not enough, not hard enough, not close enough, no, there, there - and Christine let go of her last inhibitions and entirely took over their _danse macabre_ until the building pressure inside herself gave way to a blinding explosion and a jarringly modern chord of dissonant harmony. She soared again, she flew, she… felt him tumble over the edge and die. From far away she heard her angel shout her name before they collapsed against each other, sliding down to the floor, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

When she looked at his face again, still panting, not yet capable of forming words, he held her gaze this time. There was an odd mix of emotions written on his features - adoration, disbelief, hope. But above them all - and this terrified her beyond her darkest phantasies - there was fear. She had caught a glimpse behind the mask without even so much as touching it.

 


End file.
